Combeferre held his head in his hands. To put it mildly, the day was not going well. He had just discovered a new problem…his glasses were too large for his small face. Without them the world was a colorful blur, so taking them off was not an option. With them, he had to push them up every few minutes much to his irritation. In an attempt to help, Musichetta had tied a worn piece of yellow satin around the earpieces. With the addition of the ribbon he felt very foolish.

To make a bad situation worse, Marquette, Musichetta's sister had come home and she was no less vocal about her admiration for the group. "Can we keep them, 'hetta?" She asked hugging Bahorel, who scowled mildly at her.

Musichetta was actually very good with children. At least she made Bahorel…Michel stop scowling when she brought out a small box with lead soldiers and a tiny cannon. "Here, Michel, you can play with these if you like."

Michel Bahorel's eyes lit up and he took the box quite cheerfully. He lined up the soldiers into two rows. "Die English –" He let loose some expletives that most seven year olds would not have used.

Musichetta's eyes widened. "Language!" She snapped swatting him on the head.

"Sorry Mademoiselle."

Combeferre noted that it had been exactly an hour and half when Jehan scooted over and started playing with Bahorel. Mentally he calculated that he had about four and a half hours before he succumbed to the same fate. Amused he watched the two play with the soldiers.

"We need cannon balls." Bahorel announced.

"We could use rocks." Jehan countered.

"Or we could melt down a soldier and use him for cannon balls."

"No, you can't do that! Then this army would be smaller."

"It could be the losing army."

"But that wouldn't be fair!"

"We could melt down two soldiers."

"We don't need that many cannon balls."

"We could use rocks."

"I already said that."

"Oh."

Despite the situation, Combeferre fought the urge to laugh.

Bahorel screwed up his face. "What armies should we have?"

"Roman and Gaul?"

"Huh?"

"Roman…from Rome…Gaul…that would be us."

"Oh. I'm Gaul then."

"Fine, but that means you loose."

"Nuh-uh, then you can be Gaul."

"Nope. The Die is Cast."

Combeferre did laugh, but he clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. It figured that a seven-year-old Jean Prouvaire would already know about the Gallic Wars.

Bahorel scowled again. "Musichetta! He won't let me be Rome."

"He said he wanted to be Gaul." Jehan protested with a slight anxiety creeping into his voice.

Musichetta looked delighted. "For the next half hour you be Gaul, Michel. Then you can be Rome. Oh, I love this!" She squealed and went back to sorting clothing.

Combeferre shook his head and sighed deeply. He hadn't bothered explaining the situation to Joly and Bossuet. He didn't see the point in having them worry about the inevitable. Combeferre also figured that they would probably pick up on Bahorel and Prouvaire's strange behavior and put two and two together.

One thing did bother him. If they all ended up losing their adult minds then there was a significant chance that they wouldn't find the woman that had done this to them. As much as he hated to admit it, Combeferre decided that they were in need of help from Enjolras and the others. They would have to send Musichetta as an envoy.

But there was no earthly way Enjolras would just accept Musichetta's word for everything. Unlike the other Amis he had never met her before. She would have to have something along the lines of proof…a letter for example.

Sighing again, Combeferre walked over to the two young women. "Musichetta, Marquette, would either of you two happen to have some paper and ink? I need to write a note for Enjolras explaining this situation to him. It will be up to him and the others to find whoever did this to us."

Marquette nodded. "I have some. Charles gave me some lovely stationary as a present. He also gave me a pen and ink…I don't have the heart to tell him I can't read or write." She chattered cheerfully as she got the items for Combeferre.

Combeferre smiled at her, looking something like a baby owl with his glasses perched preciously on his nose. "Thank you, Marquette."

He took the items, sat down on the floor, and bean to write.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Enjolras scowled at his two friends with the paramount of irritation. "Stop that infernal laughing!" He cried.

Feuilly clutched a stitch in his side. "I never knew you had such a good sense of humor, Enjolras!"

Courfeyrac wiped away a tear. "Yeah. They 'magically' got turned into children somehow. That is the funniest thing I've heard in ages!"

The two kept laughing and Enjolras kept scowling. This went on for at least another full minute when suddenly Feuilly stopped laughing.

Courfeyrac stopped long enough to ask what was the matter.

Feuilly stared openmouthed and pointed behind Courfeyrac at Grantaire's table.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac both turned to look. Their jaws dropped in comical unison.

Sitting at Grantaire's table was indeed Grantaire…but a younger version of him. Still clutching the bottle he didn't look a day over fifteen. The scraggly beard, the awful dark bags under his eyes, the unkempt hair, were all gone. In their place were smooth skin, bright intelligent eyes, and tousled hair. While he was still homely, there was certain innocence about his features that up until this moment had not been there.

Grantaire looked at them. "What's the matter with you fellows?" The words came out uninhibited by inebriation.

Courfeyrac wordlessly handed him Joly's mirror.

Grantaire took it cheerfully. Astonishment gradually came over his features as he looked at his reflection. He set the bottle down on the table and grabbed the mirror with both hands peering intensely at his reflection.

The other three held their breath waiting for some sort of definite reaction from him.

Grantaire looked up at them after a long pause. He was smiling. "I'm a rather good looking fellow, non?"

Author's note: more to come, I promise.